The murky, magnificent Eel River was once a highway for the Wailaki people, who navigated by canoe and hauled goods between villages in cone-shaped baskets. But the tribe was forced out during the Gold Rush and, decades later, a railroad was built along the river in this verdant stretch of Humboldt County.

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Perry Lincoln, whose grandmother came from one of those villages, today sees another affront — the Great Redwood Trail, a 307-mile path planned along the remnants of the long-gone railroad that cuts through his ancestral land.

When they first learned of the project a few years ago, he says, some people, both Native and non-Native, thought: “But wait a minute, this is kind of wrong. You’re just kind of shoving it down our throats.” A line on the T-shirt Lincoln wore summed up his feelings: “No trail on my ancestors’ bones.”

Tribal members and allies formed a group, the Kinest’e Community Coalition, to have a say in the project, protect sacred sites and ultimately reroute the trail.

They maintain the state approved a path that will allow tourists to amble over graves without their consent. Fueling further outrage, it was exempted from the California Environmental Quality Act, which requires tribal consultation.

The ambitious project has supporters, though, who see a historic opportunity to turn an old railroad into a regional asset — even if some of them question how it’s being developed.

Championed by state Sen. Mike McGuire, the trail would stretch from San Francisco Bay to Humboldt Bay, winding through the North Coast’s remote, wild country. Advocates envision it as a bucket-list destination akin to the Pacific Crest Trail and an economic driver for struggling rural towns.

Roughly 40% of the trail is complete or under construction, according to McGuire (D-Healdsburg).

“What this trail will do is open up some of the most spectacular landscapes on Earth,” he said. “Folks will be able to traverse past giant ancient redwoods to mighty rivers … through lush vineyards, golden rolling hills.”

Some environmental groups agree tribes should have a greater say, yet support the project because it’s pitched as a major cleanup effort.

Alicia Hamann, executive director of the nonprofit Friends of the Eel River, is among the ambivalent. She’s skeptical of bypassing the state environmental law, but sees the project as perhaps the best bet to address the railroad’s legacy of pollution and restore fish habitat.

Creosote-soaked rail ties leach toxic chemicals into the soil, sharp scraps of metal litter the riverbed, and pollution remains from the timber industry the rail line once served.

“It just is basically infeasible to imagine that this scale of restoration could happen” without the state handling it, Hamann said, citing its legal access and mandate to do the work.

Talk of creating an ambitious trail on this land dates back to the 1980s, when the Northwestern Pacific Railroad was struggling to stay afloat. Among other problems, the Eel River Canyon’s unstable geology is notorious for landslides that sent train cars careening into the water.

The state tried to prop up the railway, but in 1998, federal officials ordered it closed over safety concerns. As hopes to revive it fizzled, enthusiasm to turn the corridor into a long-distance trail climbed. Then, in 2018, a law authored by McGuire paved the way.

The Great Redwood Trail Agency was created three years later to shepherd the transition of the 231-mile northern stretch in Mendocino, Trinity and Humboldt counties. The agency now controls the land along the rail corridor.

Sonoma-Marin Area Rail Transit oversees the southern portion of the project, which runs along a commuter rail line.

Last year, more than 1 million people walked, hiked or biked the 71-mile southern segment, McGuire said. If completed, the route would be among the longest rail trails in the country.

“I’m a big advocate for rail trails,” said Bruce Silvey, who sits on the board of the Humboldt Trails Council. “They’re beautiful and they’re fun and they’re easy to ride. You can do 30 miles because they’re basically flat.”

As the project shifts from dream to reality, some of its early supporters have been disappointed with the process. Steve Madrone, a Humboldt County supervisor, stepped down from the trail agency board in April, in part because he was upset with the exemption from CEQA — which he said the board wasn’t consulted about.

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For years, he said, he’d been promising tribes and landowners their concerns would be addressed as the law requires. Under the law, government agencies must identify and reduce harms of projects, and seek public input.

But the state Legislature last year exempted certain trails funded by Proposition 4, including the Great Redwood Trail, from the law’s requirements.

Madrone thinks some officials pushed for the exemption because they feared that ranchers or tribes would delay the project through appeals or lawsuits.

“Think about the trauma that these tribes have experienced,” he said. “That did not help remove that mistrust. It reinforced that mistrust.”

CEQA has been criticized for being used to bring protracted lawsuits that slow or kill development. McGuire pointed out the legislative exemption as part of broader reform of the law that exempted certain housing projects and other trails.

“It takes too long in this state to build parks and amenities, and that includes trails,” he said.

“Tribal consultation is written into the [trail’s] master plan,” McGuire said, and highlighted his record working with tribes throughout the North Coast.

“Native American community success is California’s success, and we’re going to be working closely together,” he said.

Even for all of Madrone’s misgivings, he supports the trail.

In a region where timber and cannabis have declined, he sees it financially invigorating communities such as Ukiah, Willits and Cloverdale — bringing people in to dine, spend the night and even settle down permanently. Each year, the trail’s northern portion is expected to generate roughly $100 million in economic activity, according to a trail agency analysis.

Trails “bring communities together,” he said. “When you’re on a trail, there’s no Democrats, no Republicans, no independents. It’s just people.”

Elaine Hogan, executive director of the Great Redwood Trail Agency, said it has reached out to tribes via letters, phone calls and emails. After that, “it’s really up to the tribes and tribal leaders … to engage with us at whatever feels right for them,” she said.

The agency isn’t seeking consultation as legally defined by CEQA, but “more comprehensive involvement of tribes in planning, construction and stewardship of their ancestral lands.”

Lincoln said if those efforts were made, they never reached any tribal members he knows. By the time the tribe even learned about the trail, he said, planning had been underway for years.

The land the tribe inhabited before being evicted is now divided among ranchers, government agencies and a conservation nonprofit. More than a century later, he and his daughter Tisanche Warren say they’ve never been allowed back to hold ceremonies. Only in recent years, through a tribal nonprofit, have they been able to work in certain areas.

“We’re barely getting access to these areas ourselves, but we’re going to allow outside communities to have full access to these places?” Warren said. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

Madrone, the county supervisor, said some of the outreach to tribes was insensitive, with some people essentially telling members to get over the past. Many decided they would not engage, he said, adding that the Wailaki are not the sole tribe with concerns about the trail.

Yet he says neither side is lying, something that is “not confusing if you understand the trauma that native peoples are still experiencing to this day.” Tribes, he said, may not see the consultation as real until talk becomes action.

Some tribes appear amenable to discussion. The Great Redwood Trail Agency has a contract with the Wiyot Tribe for cultural monitoring, and agreements with Blue Lake Rancheria and Hopland Band of Pomo Indians that establish government-to-government partnerships. The agency has $5 million for tribal cultural resource preservation, and plans to launch a tribal advisory committee.

But that, said Alicia Bales, director of the Sierra Club’s Redwood Chapter, is “not a seat at the table, it’s a seat outside. … They’re giving advice to the real decision makers, who do have the seat at the table, about their own homeland. So it’s very problematic.”

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